


Fictober 2019

by RuBecSo



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: 1910s, 1920s, 1960s, Dissociation, Fictober 2019, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gray-Asexuality, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Some of these are more like historical fiction, Teenagers, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 06:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21266465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuBecSo/pseuds/RuBecSo
Summary: Boardwalk Empire fics I wrote for Fictober 2019, mostly focused on Meyer and Charlie but with guest appearances from other in-show and historical figures.





	1. "It will be fun, trust me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve-year-old Benny is hyperactive and frustrated that Meyer isn't as interested in girls as he is. Meyer is pining after Charlie and just wants to be left alone.

“It’ll be fun, trust me.”

Meyer didn’t look up from the ledger.

“May I remind you that your idea of a good time is setting push-carts on fire?”

Benny bounced on his heels.

“C’mon! It’s so windy and there’s so many broads around, it’s bound to happen.”

Meyer lifted his eyes to glare at him, though his head stayed bent and his pen stayed on the page.

“I am not gonna wait around outside the Flatiron just because we might see some lady’s knees.”

“Not just knees!” Benny leaned over the desk and spoke in the loudest whisper known to man. “Red says the winds are high enough we might see _ everything _.”

Meyer finally put down his pen. He gave him a withering look. 

“You know there are girls on Delancey who’d show you that, right? I mean, you’re twelve so they’re not gonna, you know…” He gestured inarticulately.

Benny smirked. “…fuck me?”

Meyer closed his eyes and sighed. That made Benny’s smile widen. For someone who kept his feelings so well under wraps, the older boy did a really bad job of hiding how much he hated dirty talk.

“Yes, that. But give ‘em four bits and they’d probably pull up their skirts for you.” He picked up the pen again. “And you wouldn’t even have to schlep up to 23rd for it.”

“Yeah, but.” Benny shifted his weight from foot to foot. “That’s not the same.”

“How?”

“It just isn’t, okay?”

Meyer rolled his eyes. “One pair of legs aren’t too different from another.”

“And how would you know? I bet you never even seen one broad who wasn’t your mother.”

“Happens I have.” He said it quietly enough that Benny almost didn’t catch it; he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to.

“Wait. Really?”

“Mm-hm.” Meyer’s eyes stayed glued to the ledger. 

“Who was it?”

Benny could have sworn he saw a flush rise in his friend’s face.

“No one. It doesn’t matter. It was nothing to write home about.”

Benny scoffed. “That’s bullshit. You’re making it up.”

Meyer looked back up at him. His expression was unreadable, and when he spoke Benny couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic:

“Yes, Benny. You got me. Go have fun being a peeping tom with Red.”

Knowing he wasn’t going to get any more from him now (but making a mental note to definitely try again later), Benny headed for the door. Before he left, he stopped and turned back.

“Charlie’s gonna be there too, y’know.”

Meyer’s expression flickered.

“Well,” he replied after a brief pause, “tell him to leave if the cops show up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google '23 skidoo' for some fun historical context. 
> 
> Also this becomes angstier if you've read Mogul of the Mob.


	2. "Just follow me, I know the area."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1914, twelve-year-old Meyer Lansky's just moved to the Lower East Side and gets some help finding his way around.

“Just follow me, I know the area.”

Meyer was going to say it was fine, all he needed was directions. But the older boy had already strode off along the busy sidewalk. He jogged to catch up with him before he lost him in the crowd. He’d thought there were a lot of people in Brooklyn, but it was practically abandoned compared to the Lower East Side. People and carts and street vendors all competed for space on the street. At times the crowd seemed to move as one, sweeping them along like the current of a river. At other times it split into a swirling chaos of people heading in different directions, all elbows as they pushed past one another.

His unexpected guide seemed to intuit the quickest way through the crush. Sometimes he’d weave between the passersby, sometimes he’d just go straight and trust they’d get out of his way, which they generally did. Meyer wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was glad to have the older, broader-shouldered boy leading the way. Even if he did have to take two steps for each of his loping strides.

“You just moved here, kid?”

“Yes. To a tenement on Grand Street.” He was slightly out of breath. “Not far from the river.”

“You got good English already.” He looked down at him from under his scruffy bowler hat. “You just come through Ellis Island?”

Meyer shook his head. “We were in Brownsville for two years.”

“Huh.” (Meyer filed away this reaction as yet another piece of evidence that his father was wrong when he said moving here wasn’t taking a step backwards.) “You weren’t born here, though?”

“No. Russia.”

His guide smirked.

“Yeah, I figured from the way you chew on your ‘W’s.” Meyer’s glare just made him grin wider, showing off a dimple and a missing tooth. “C’mon, kid! I’m only ragging on you.”

Meyer scowled. “Are we almost there?”

“Just a couple blocks.”

As they waited at the curb, Meyer’s attention was drawn to a group of boys gathered around one of the stoops. They all seemed intensely focused on something at the center of their tightly-packed circle. Between their feet, Meyer caught a glimpse of a pair of dice being thrown. Cries of triumph or dismay rose up from the group, followed by the sound of clinking coins.

“Craps game,” explained his guide, spotting his interest, “You see ‘em all over.”

“They’re playing for money?”

He nodded. “Pretty good take for those that run ‘em.” He leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially: “Me and my buddy Gurrah shake ‘em down for protection once in a while.”

Meyer blinked, surprised at his eagerness to share this with him. “Protection from who?”

“Why,” he replied, his face a picture of sincerity. “gangsters of course.”

He stopped outside a tall, redbrick and limestone building.

“Here you are. Seward Park Library.”

After the older boy had disappeared back down the street, Meyer paused for a moment on the stone steps, looking back. He could still make out the cluster of craps players through the shifting crowd. For a moment he felt the urge to head back down the street and watch them. Then he dragged his attention away and headed inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The older boy is Louis 'Lepke' Buchalter, future head of Murder Inc. and electric chair exectionee.


	3. "I might just kiss you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meyer tries and fails to stay angry at Charlie for talking about their sex life around Masseria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me still can't believe That Scene is a thing that actually happened in the show.

Meyer was quiet on the car ride back from their meeting with Masseria. That wasn't unusual; the little man often retreated into himself after such negotiations, even when they went well. Sometimes it seemed to Charlie that success put him on edge just as much as failure. 

This felt different, though. He mostly kept his eyes on the city street, but every now and then he'd steal a sidelong glimpse at Charlie. Whatever thoughts Meyer was absorbed in, clearly he was either featuring in them or distracting from them. 

He fidgeted, shifting in the passenger seat and fiddling with the latch on the window. Had his partner realised some fatal flaw in the deal that Charlie had yet to spot? Was he waiting for him to say something? 

He was just about to break the silence when Meyer got there first:

"Masseria's Sicilian has a thicker accent than yours."

Charlie’s brows knit together. "Yeah…?" 

Meyer shrugged. "Maybe I've just listened to you more, that's why I understand you better."

Charlie’s stomach sank. He saw where this was going. 

"Course I still miss some words," Meyer continued, "but I can fill  _ those _ in with context."

He shot him one of those glances then. Charlie squirmed. 

"Look, if this is about what I said to Joe before, he brought it up okay?" 

"Really?" Meyer lifted a brow. "He asked for your informed opinion, did he?" 

Charlie grit his teeth and glared out the window. 

"No. But he said something. About you, about your people…" 

"Let me guess. Hole in a sheet?" 

"Yeah." Meyer nodded once, a small motion that made Charlie scowl at how matter-of-fact it was. "You see why I wasn't gonna let that stand, right?" 

Meyer laughed silently through his nose. 

"Well I'm flattered," he said with a thin smile, "but I don't need you to defend my sexual prowess to Joe Masseria."

Charlie knew he should probably let him have the last word on this. But the silence was too much for him to bear. 

"Y'know, those guys make jokes like that all the time." He folded his arms and sunk down in his seat. "Ain't like he's gonna read anythin' into it."

Meyer didn't reply. For some reason that made Charlie want to push it. 

"I bet I could kiss you and they wouldn't think nothin' of it. Those Sicilians are always kissin' each other on the cheeks."

Meyer was still silent, but Charlie saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Who knows," he continued, "next time I might just do that."

Charlie grinned as he watched him try and fail to stop the twitch from turning into a smile. 

He dropped his voice and leaned in. "Whaddya think of that, Little Man?" 

Meyer was quiet, eyes on the road, and for a moment Charlie thought he'd gone too far. Then he took one hand off the steering wheel and brought it to rest on Charlie’s knee. 

"I think you're an idiot," he said, tracing a circle with his thumb. 

"Yeah," Charlie breathed, "maybe you're right."

His hand moved slowly upwards, following the inner seam of Charlie's pants. 

"'Like a sailor on shore leave', was it?" 

"Uh-huh."

Meyer tilted his head to the side. 

"I might hold you to that."


	4. "Can you stay?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1960, Meyer visits Charlie in Naples for the last time.

The twin humps of Mount Vesuvius were silhouetted against a sky the colour of saffron and pomegranates. The sunset lit the faces of the two men walking along the Naples waterfront. The shorter of the two (who seemed somehow even smaller than he had ten years back) walked with his hands clasped behind his back. The taller (whose hair was not yet completely grey) had one hand in his pocket, the other holding the leash of the little dog trotting along ahead of them. Sometimes he’d give the leash a gentle tug, when the dog was trying to rush on ahead at a faster pace than the two men were willing to go.

Few words passed between them, but the silences were not awkward, nor were they empty.

They paused at the railing. The short man’s eyes followed the horizon, head turning slowly the way they’d come until he caught a glimpse of two figures, also paused by the sea wall a distance back.

The taller man spoke:

“They still there?”

The shorter nodded. “What do you think? FBI or reporters?”

“FBI.” His lip curled into a grimace. “Reporters would’ve come up by now.”

Another nod. 

“Sometimes I give ‘em a piece of my mind,” the taller man added.

His companion looked back up at him. “Reporters or FBI?”

“Either. Both.”

A smile tugged at the small man’s mouth. “Teddy usually does that for me.”

“Oh of course.” Now the taller man was smiling too. “’Cause you never cuss out no one, right?”

“Right.”

They continued on along the waterfront. Though neither glanced back, they knew the two figures would have continued also. 

They came to a wooden bench overlooking the bay. Each man glanced at the other, the following exchange taking place between their eyes:

_ You wanna stop? _

_ Only if you do. _

_ I could rest. You want to? _

_ Sure, why not. _

They sat down. The taller man patted the bench and the little dog hopped up beside him. He scratched at the space between its ears. The smaller man rested his hands on his stomach, fingers interlaced. They were quiet for a good while, watching the scarlet and gold and all the hundred shades between reflected in the water, save for the areas in the humped shadow of the volcano.

Then the shorter man spoke:

“Hell of view.”

The taller man shrugged.

“Eh. You get bored of anywhere after long enough.”

His companion sighed.

“I never got bored of Havana.” He said it quietly, almost to himself.

They lapsed into silence again. 

Then the taller man spoke:

“How much?”

The shorter man’s eyes flickered to the side and back. Out the corner of his eye he could make out the shapes of their human shadows. Hands still clasped, he tapped once with his forefinger and twice with his middle finger. 

The taller man’s thick brows raised. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, “really?”

He nodded, then gave him a wry smile.

“And all I got out of it was an ulcer.” He rubbed his stomach absentmindedly. “Teddy’s been calling it Castro.”

The taller man gave a small huff of laughter. Then his features settled into a more pensive expression.

“How’s your heart?” he asked, softly.

The shorter man tilted his head one way and the other. 

“Better than it was.” He turned to look at him. “You?”

The taller man shrugged. “’bout the same.”

They let the silence swallow them once more. Once the sun had dipped all the way behind the horizon and the brightest colours were disappearing too, they reached an unspoken, simultaneous conclusion that it was time to move on. 

They paused once more on the road that led one way to the taller man’s house and the other way to the shorter man’s hotel. For the first time in their walk, the silence felt heavy, expectant.

Then the taller man spoke:

“Can you stay?”

The lines between the shorter man’s eyes deepened.

“Charlie…”

He held up a hand. 

“I don’t mean forever or nothin’.” He looked down at him with a hopeful smile. “Just a few more days?”

He got no reply. His friend was avoiding his eye.

“C’mon, Meyer.” He would have sounded lighthearted if there hadn’t been just the slightest whine to his voice. “Ain’t like you gotta rush back to Havana now, right?”

Meyer breathed a long, weary sigh.

“I’ve still gotta tend to things back home.” He smiled; there was warmth in it, if not joy. “Now more than ever.”

Charlie stared at the paving stones. Then he shrugged, a big motion the same as when he’d been a teenager.

“Ah. Fuggetaboutit.”

He wound and unwound the end of the dog leash round his hand.

Meyer chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. Then he glanced around slowly again, neck craning from side to side as if simply stretching, then reached out and took Charlie’s hand.

“Give me a few years. I’ve got some things coming up might help recoup the losses from Cuba.” His eyes flicked to the side and back. “But after that’s all sorted, maybe I can come out here on a longer basis.”

“What?” Charlie’s brows knitted. “Live out here?”

Meyer shrugged. “Everyone’s gotta retire somewhere.”

Charlie was quiet, eyes on their hands as he traced a small circle on Meyer’s palm with his thumb.

“Nah,” he replied after a while, “You should go to Israel. Like you always said.” 

He looked back up at Meyer’s lined face.

“You don’t belong here.”

One last, unspoken remark passed between their eyes:

_ Neither of us do. _


	5. "There's just something about him."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank has doubts about Sal's decision to invite Meyer to join the gang. Sal's not sure he can explain it either.

“Alright Sal, explain it to me.” Frank parked himself on an empty crate and pulled out a pack of smokes. “Why’d you wanna bring in some Yid who ain’t even five foot and can’t weigh more than 70 pounds?”

Salvatore grinned at him from his perch on one of the stacks.

“I know he don’t look like it, but that little guy packs a mean punch.” 

He pointed to the bruise on his jaw, purple blotches fading to yellow as it healed.

Frank smirked. “So you just don’t wanna be on the wrong end of his left hook again?”

“No,” said Sal, a little more forcefully than he intended, “I just figured he’d be good to have in our corner, y’know?”

“There’s plenty of Italians who can throw a punch, Sal.” Frank paused to light his cigarette. “Some of ‘em are even old enough to have hair on their balls.”

Sal dismissed the idea with a flick of his wrist.

“Yeah, yeah, but this kid ain’t just good in a fight. He’s got brains too.” 

He got down from his perch and pulled up an empty crate to sit in front of Frank.

“He knows ‘bout every dice game between Delancey and Montgomery,” he continued, gesturing freely as he spoke, “and he knows which ones ain’t got protection yet. We can make way more scratch shakin’ down them games than we do squeezin’ school kids.”

Frank was still unconvinced.

“So get him to point you at the games and give him a cut.” He frowned as he took another drag of smoke. “What’s a Yid want to join a Sicilian gang for anyway?”

Sal shrugged, the motion extending past his shoulders and into his arms.

“Fuck Frank, I dunno. I can’t hear his thoughts. Besides, why you so hung up about that? Ain’t you been seein’ that Lauretta broad?”

Frank gave him a dry look.

“Yeah but I ain’t askin’ her to join the outfit.”

Something about his tone made Charlie scowl, like he thought he was simple or something. He stood up from the crate and took a couple steps to and fro.

“Look, there’s just something about him. You never just get a good feelin’ about someone?”

Frank was silent for a few moments. Sal couldn’t quite read the look he was giving him. Then he sighed out a plume of smoke and shrugged.

“Your call, Sal.”

The way he said it, Frank probably meant for that to make Sal think twice. But for some reason, in that moment he felt any remaining doubt melt away.   
“You know what? Yeah. It _ is _ my call.”


	6. "Yes, I admit it, you were right."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meyer isn't ready to forgive Charlie for going behind his back and getting arrested yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a very brief mention of blood.

Charlie’s head hung low, his shoulders slumped forward, his chin almost touching his chest. If Meyer hadn’t been looking at him from below, he might not have spotted the dried blood lingering under his nose. That alone should have been enough to melt the block of ice that had settled in Meyer’s chest the moment he’d heard about the arrest. But it wasn’t.

“Alright,” Charlie mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor, partially obscured by his disheveled curls, “I admit it. You were right.”

It should have been enough to make Meyer get up, cross the room, take his bruised face in his hands and say… something. _ It’s okay. We’ll fix this. I forgive you. _

But it wasn’t. Not in spite of the fact that it was Charlie standing crumpled and bloody and contrite before him, but _ because _ it was him. Because Meyer was a miser with his trust, portioning out pieces of his heart like meat at a poor family’s table, and no one held more pieces of it than Charlie. 

Usually that was a comfort. No matter how unreliable Rothstein and Masseria and even Benny were in their own ways, ways Meyer had to bear in mind or risk disaster, he knew he could rely on Charlie. When the voice in the back of his head (the one always telling him  _ you are not safe _ ) started saying Charlie was lying to him or going behind his back, he knew he could ignore it for once.

That voice had been there when Charlie had left before. _ Look at his face _ , it had said,  _ he’s not listening to you _ . Now it had grown to fill Meyer’s head and was pushing out everything else.

He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette, his movements small, precise, contained. He paused for a second as he passed Charlie, though his gaze remained fixed forward. 

“Yes.” His voice was just barely above a whisper. “I was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meyer continues to be a vessel for my insecurities / trust issues.


	7. "We could have a chance."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meyer walks to Charlie's place after his first meeting with Rothstein, chain-smoking and thinking.

On his way back, Meyer smoked through his remaining cigarettes and barely noticed it. He fell into a rhythm, moving automatically in time with his footsteps on the sidewalk: light up, smoke, discard, repeat. By the time he reached the Lower East Side, his throat was raw, his feet were aching, and the evening chill was working its way through his oversized coat. The trek from Midtown was too long by half; he ought to have taken the subway. But he’d needed time to think. 

He felt he needed to hold everything Rothstein had said to him in mind. Everything between the introduction at the Bar Mitzvah over in Williamsburg and the conclusion of their six-hour-long lunch at Park Central. Like any of it might be important in a way he hadn’t yet spotted. While he’d been sipping coffee and listening to one of New York’s most powerful gangsters lay out how smart men might make the best of the changes on the horizon, Meyer had somehow managed to slip into the role of the kind of man who discussed such things over finger sandwiches and cake.

The moment he’d stepped out onto the street, he’d suddenly felt every bit the seventeen year old wise-guy who was so far out of his depth he didn’t know if the water went down ten feet or a hundred.

It took him a while to realise he was going the wrong way to head back home. While he’d been lost in thought, his feet had taken him past his turn-off and straight on, towards Charlie’s apartment.

It made sense. He needed to talk it over with his business partner before making any decisions. He’d said as much to Rothstein. There’d been a quiver in his stomach then. It had partly been giddiness over getting to refer to his fellow hoodlum as his ‘business partner’. But it had also been the uncertainty about whether or not he was making the right choice. Would Rothstein see it as level headedness or hesitancy, a sign he’d found a prudent young man or a sign he should look for someone more committed? 

Meyer had found it impossible to read it on his face. He could see how the man had made his fortune playing poker.

“Think it over.” he’d said as they shook hands before parting, “We could have a chance at a very fruitful partnership.”

These parting words were what echoed most clearly in Meyer’s mind. At Charlie’s apartment, after he’d given him a far more scattered and out-of-order account of his day than he would have liked, and his friend was looking at him with a peaked but guarded interest, he’d found himself reshaping those words:

“This could be our chance, Charlie.”


	8. "Patience... is not something I'm known for."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meyer wants to know how long Charlie's had feelings for him, but isn't sure if he's ready to admit how long it was for him.

“How long?”

The question slipped out without Meyer meaning it to.

“Hn?” Charlie’s head jerked up to look at him, brows scrunched.

He ran his fingers through Charlie’s curls. He looked so good when his hair was messy like this. Meyer didn’t know how he’d ever resisted the urge to touch it like this.

“How long did you want to...?” He shrugged, uncharacteristically bashful. “Y’know, before we...?”

Charlie’s eyes were soft and sleepy and perfect.

“Oh. Uh, since you introduced me to AR as your ‘business partner’.” He chuckled quietly and brought his hand up to cup Meyer’s face. “Just a couple wise guys outta Lower Manhattan, but you made us sound like we was runnin’ some kinda empire.”

His palm was warm against Meyer’s cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into it. Part of him wanted to say  _ ‘We could, you know. We could run an empire. Together.’  _

But though the hope (wish? promise?) sat warm and welcome in his chest, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud. He felt like too much talk of the future might destroy this precious present.

“More than a year.” He said it to himself as much as Charlie. Then he leaned in and whispered close to his ear: “Who’d’a thought you’d have such patience?”

Somehow, the sound of his own voice sent a tingle down his spine. On paper, his words could have been the same kind of good-natured teasing he’d exchanged with Charlie and Benny for years, yet in this moment they took on a completely different feel. 

Charlie laughed again, a breathy huff against Meyer’s neck that made him shiver.

“S’pose that’s... not somethin’ I’m known for.”

Part of him wondered (the part that was always wondering whether he liked it or not) if this was how Charlie talked to women. He’d never understood the way his friends talked around girls, never understood what they got out of it. Now it was starting to make sense.

“You keep surprising me,” he murmured (and now that part of him wondered if that was how women talked to  _ him _ ). He kissed him lightly on the space below his ear, then along his jaw until he found Charlie’s lips with his own.

“How ‘bout you?” Charlie said when they broke away.

Meyer supposed he should have expected him to ask that. Yet he found himself in the rare and embarrassing position of not having an answer ready.

He’d never thought this was possible, never even entertained the possibility outside of ridiculous moments of hope he’d been quick to dismiss. That was what he’d done with all the thoughts and feelings that could have led him here: renamed them, argued them out of existence, or failing that just put them in the same locked room he put everything that was not  _ useful. _

Now he didn’t know if he could untangle them. Had the rage that had stirred in him at the mention of That Woman in Atlantic City been more than anger at Charlie’s recklessness? Had the quiver in his stomach when he’d introduced him to AR been more than excitement over the new opportunities? And what about the cold, empty feeling that had sat in his chest the whole time Charlie was at Hampton Farms and only thawed when he saw him again; had that been more than sorrow for an absent friend?

“I’m not sure,” he eventually admitted, “but I think... I think at least as long as you.”

Charlie’s thick brows twitched upward. 

“At least?”

Meyer winced internally. Why had he let those words slip in there?

“Could be longer.” He shrugged, trying and failing to seem nonchalant. Charlie’s eyes were watching him expectantly. From this close, Meyer could pick out the flecks of greenish gold in the brown. 

“Honestly...” Meyer continued, looking away but still feeling those eyes on him. He wanted to find a way to back off from this, tell Charlie something that wouldn’t either scare him off or make him laugh (he didn’t know which would be worse). 

But while his mind was trying to find a way out, his tongue had other plans:

“Honestly, I think it’s been there since 1916. Christmas.” His eyes flickered up to meet Charlie’s and away again. “When I saw you again, after... y’know.”

_ After you got out of Hampton Farms. _

Charlie was quiet for a moment. Meyer made to pull away, sure he’d got it wrong, but Charlie gripped his shoulder to keep him close. He pulled him in and kissed him again, deeper and with something of the franticness of that first time, when Meyer had felt like if he broke away for too long he’d never find his way back.

“So, uh...” he mumbled against Meyer’s mouth, “...you won’t think too bad of me if I say it’s the same for me?”

Meyer pulled back, face crumpled in confusion. 

“But I thought—?”

He waved a hand, half dismissive, half flustered.

“I know, I know I said—” He sighed, colour rising in his cheeks ( _ God, he was beautiful _ ). “I guess I didn’t wanna say so before.”

Meyer felt a knot he hadn’t even been aware of come undone in his chest. Laughter bubbled up unexpectedly through his lips.

“Well in that case, I’m never calling you impatient again.”


	9. "You keep me warm."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie is being wimpy and Mediterranean about the New York winter, which gets Meyer thinking about heat and cold and their respective homelands.

“We have to get up.”

Charlie pulled the blanket closer around them both.

“It’s too fuckin’ cold,” he whined into Meyer’s chest.

“Let me move and I’ll turn up the heat.”

“Nah.” He shook his head, loose curls tickling Meyer’s chin. “You keep me warm.”

Meyer gave a huff of laughter, making Charlie’s head bob up and down. He’d never thought of himself as someone who could keep anyone warm, much less the man currently curled up on him like a stubborn cat. Charlie was as hot blooded a man as Meyer had ever known, and that wasn’t just figurative; heat  _ radiated _ from him. Sometimes Meyer’s hand would brush against his face and for a moment he’d think he must have a fever, temporarily transformed into a fussy mother fearful for his health. But then he’d remind himself that his own hands were cold.

(Or sometimes Charlie would do it for him.  _ “Jesus, Meyer, you got blood running through those veins or ice water?” _ )

It was too poetic a notion for Meyer to ever say out loud, but sometimes he thought a piece of their respective birthplaces remained beneath their skin. For Charlie, the magma that ran beneath the Sicilian hills. For him, the snow of the winters in Grodno.

But perhaps he would not have survived those winters if he hadn’t held some store of warmth as well, absorbed from fireplaces and candles and his mother’s arms. Perhaps that was what Charlie felt, drew out from beneath the layers of frost that had held it safe, hidden, captive. Perhaps the reason Charlie griped and shivered through the Manhattan winters was because, with all the heat he put out, there was little left for himself.

The sky outside was a uniform white. Snow drifted past their window. Charlie’s cheek was a hot water bottle on his chest.

“Alright,” he said, running a hand through Charlie’s curls, “we’ll stay a bit longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone and their dog has done hot-and-cold imagery for Charlie and Meyer, but it fits so well I couldn't resist. I tried to put my own spin on it.


	10. "I'm with you, you know that."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots from a lifetime of friendship, love and trust.

_ “I’m with you, you know that.” _

Again and again over the years, they told one another this. 

At the beginning they said it out loud. Charlie said it to Meyer when the other Italians gave him grief. Meyer said it to Charlie when he saw him for the first time after Hampton Farms. They both said it to each other, one night in the summer of 1920, when Meyer returned from Atlantic City with dust on his trousers and a haunted look in his eyes, and Charlie knew what had happened without him having to say it, and nothing and no one was solid or certain outside the two of them together in that moment.

Over time, they didn’t even need to voice it. They said it in a myriad of glances, each slightly different from one another but all carrying that truth at their core. When it seemed like Rothstein was waiting to see which of them was the safer bet. When they were crouched one night behind a car on the road from Philly, shots ringing in their ears and gunpowder in their noses. When they were sat on opposite sides of a room, Masseria’s hand on Charlie’s shoulder and Rothstein’s on Meyer’s. 

Charlie tried to give Meyer that look when they were in that hotel in Tampa, suffocating in humid air and possible futures. By now they were both so fluent in this silent language that, when Meyer didn’t return it, it was like he’d forgotten how to speak English. Charlie tried it again, still getting nothing back. Their familiar method of silent communication cut off at Meyer’s end, he returned to more traditional means:

“We’re partners, Meyer.”

“Not on this. Not anymore.”

It wasn’t until another night, when Meyer had dust on his trousers and that look in his eye all over again, when they remembered how to say it.

After that they went back to saying it without words. When a scarred and droopy-eyed Charlie told Meyer he was going to accept Maranzano’s offer. When Meyer returned from Boston and neither of them said a word about the state he was in when Jimmy Blue Eyes found him there. The first time Meyer visited Charlie in Great Meadow Prison and on every visit after that.

The next time they said it out loud was the last time. The line between Sicily and Miami was patchy. In retrospect, Meyer is fairly sure the phone had been tapped. He gets some small satisfaction from the thought of some hapless FBI agent trying to figure out what they meant by it, what secret mobster code was hidden in those words, when in fact it was nothing more than a comforting falsehood whispered from one lonely old man to another from 5000 miles away.

_ “I’m with you, you know that.” _


	11. "Scared, me?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a brush with death, Sal is exhilarated but his new friend Meyer is somehow not quite there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains dissociation, but viewed from the outside. Very vague allusion to abuse at the end.

The first time Salvatore saw Meyer disappear was early in the summer of 1916. 

Their hair and clothes were full of the stink of the East River. One of Sal’s shoes was unlaced. He was out of breath from hightailing it from the scene before the cops showed up. There was a red stain on his shirt cuff, already diffusing into pink as the river water soaked in.

He leaned forward, hands on his knees, panting. There was a wild grin on his face, and the moment he had the breath for it he laughed almost hysterically.

“Woo!” he yelled in no particular direction, “That sure was something, huh little guy?”

Getting no reply, he looked around to check his diminutive new friend hadn’t fallen behind. He spotted him sitting on a low wall close by. His hands were resting on the ledge, his feet were planted on the ground, and his head was pitched slightly forward. If Sal hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he was waiting to catch a streetcar.

“Hey, kid.” He bobbed his head, trying unsuccessfully to catch Meyer’s eye. “We sure showed them Micks what’s what, huh?”

Meyer’s gaze stayed forward and down, fixed on some point below the sidewalk. He still didn’t reply, but his lips seemed to form silent, half-formed utterances. The sight made the manic smile drop off Sal’s face. He closed the space between them, perching on the wall next to him and examining him with knitted brows.

“Meyer?”

He waved a hand in front of his face and was relieved when the kid finally looked up and followed it with his eyes. But there was still something  _ off  _ about the way he looked at him, like he wasn’t all there.

A thought struck him.

“Ya didn’t get knocked over the head, didya?”

He reached out to check for any blood or bruising hiding under his waterlogged hair. But before he could touch him, Meyer had propelled himself beyond his reach like a startled cat. Sal jerked his hand away, holding it open as if to show he wasn’t concealing a weapon.

Meyer blinked rapidly for a few seconds. Then he finally met Sal’s eye.

“No. I didn’t.”

Sal shifted awkwardly. 

“Do ya... want me to walk with ya?”

“No.” Meyer shook his head rapidly. “No. I’m fine.”

He made to leave, then stopped and turned back.

“Thanks.”

Sal watched him march off down the street. He shook his head. Was that the same kid who’d supposedly cracked an older boy’s skull with a cooking pot, who’d damn near broken Sal’s nose the first time they’d met, whom he’d just seen giving twice as good as he got to that Irish gang? 

He’d just kind of assumed Meyer would react like he did. If the rest of his gang had come out of a fistfight-turned-knife-fight, they’d have been riding on a wave of adrenaline-soaked braggadocio. They’d make themselves bigger, louder, more fearless. 

_ “Ah, them saps never had a chance!”  _

_ “Not a scratch.” _

_ “Scared, me?” _

He’d never seen someone shrink inward like that, disappear from view while still being physically present. 

In time, he’d learn that that was just what Meyer did after a close call. Sometimes he’d disappear for a few minutes, sometimes hours, a few times even days. Talking to him usually did the trick. Didn’t really matter what you talked about; in fact the more ordinary the talk the better. He learned that from Benny of all people, after watching him gab away in a mixed-up mess of Yiddish and English that somehow drew Meyer back to the surface. 

Sal had asked him afterward how it worked, and the crazy little kid had laughed shrilly and shrugged.

“Fuck, I dunno. Just works.”

For a time, that had had to be enough for Sal. He knew what worked. It wasn’t until later, when he wasn’t called Sal anymore, that Charlie understood the ‘why’.


End file.
